Tear You Apart
by VSSAKJ
Summary: -DISCONTINUED- Collective of my pieces for the LJ community 10Hugs. All Folon x. Lyude.
1. Wings

_(A/N: The given theme was 'wings'; this is fluff-ish.)_

"It's really blue today, Lyude."

Lyude smiled to himself and did not offer a response. One wasn't needed – Folon often made comments of what seemed quite a childish nature, but meant far more than that. Him expressing that he was content, comfortable, what could even be called happy was more than Lyude felt he needed to respond to.

He made comments about the sky quite frequently when they were up here, on the roof of King Ladekahn's palace. He didn't like it as much when it was cloudy, because then he didn't match and then it wasn't bright and then it just wasn't _pretty_. Folon had become very concerned with things being pretty lately, which was a change from the obsession with dirtiness he'd entertained a few weeks back.

A figure with bright white wings soared past them, clothed in something long and pale blue with a silver crown secure on his brow.

Lyude cast Folon a glance and noted that his face had creased somewhat. When he spoke next, his voice was quiet, "Does the Star hate me, Lyude?"

Lyude reached over to give him a tight one-armed hug. "No, he doesn't."

"But I hurt you." Folon protested, his eyes wide and still following the flying through the sky.

"That was a long time ago. And you fixed it, remember? He doesn't mind so much anymore."

"But I –"

"Hush now. It's fine. The Star doesn't mind you at all."

"You promise?" He sounded very much like a child seeking confirmation that everything was alright, that he really hadn't done anything wrong.

Lyude held him closer still, murmuring softly, "I promise."


	2. Black

_(A/N: The given theme was 'black'; this is slightly morbid and takes liberty with our not knowing much of Folon's past.)_

He hated remembering. Remembering was very, very bad. It made him hurt on the inside and think about hurting and what caused the hurting and the hurt and hurt and hurt. He hated thinking. He was supposed to live in the moment, just for what was happening right then, except when he had to think about other things for Giacomo. His commander was the only person who could make him think hard and solid about things, the only one who could persuade him to do something proper.

It hurt. The inside of him was swollen with dark, suffocating memories, of being struck until he was so numb he couldn't feel the bleeding. Bleeding so much that he wondered if there was any life left in him to have. Sometimes, when he'd lain surrounded by squalor in a pool of his own cooling blood, he'd wondered how come he didn't just die.

He'd wondered a lot of things while he lay so still that his muscles stopped knowing how to move. He'd wondered why the family he'd been born into had disposed of him in the street, even before there was anything wrong with him. He'd wondered why the people who past him kicked him, cursed at him and moved him from their paths. Even before anything was wrong with him. He'd wondered why the strange people living on the streets had used him to their own means, to satisfy themselves when he was suffering all on the inside.

The first few times he'd let it happen. He'd not understood it, not expected it, been unable to stop them anyway. Then, even as he grew to be wiry and thinner than anything, he began to resist. Fight it off. Being young, he had only the methods of tooth and nail at his disposal, but his teeth were sharp and his fist was swift. Soon there were fewer beatings, fewer bruises… fewer feelings. All that was left was the instinct to survive, to win and be standing after it was all said and done.

He started killing things. Almost anything that crossed him was a possible victim, monster, human and animal alike. When he was lost in the darkest of his young years, his world always hungry and awash with blood and fury, the Empire picked him up. And changed him.

The Empire sought to break him. They employed every technique they knew in trying to force him to obedience. What they didn't know was that it wasn't possible to break his mind – it was already deeply sick. He was given, as a failure and disgrace, to Giacomo to finish his training. And Giacomo had managed, but it took persuading.

The temptation was the promise of never being hurt again. Of people being afraid of him and never trying to overpower him. If they did, he could kill them. He could do whatever he wanted to them. All he had to do was a few things Giacomo asked – and the promise was that they wouldn't be many.

He'd been an experiment, with another girl named Ayme. He didn't know what she'd gone through, but when they both came through looking so _different_, he knew they'd have to work together. He didn't mind – he was different, but good different, with Ayme and Giacomo being good different to. It was good, right?

No. The Empire struck again. Giacomo's promise was splintered into facets of what people said – he was _wrong_, he didn't deserve to be where he was, he was _worthless_, he should be on the streets like a dog… it was everything the people had said. His mind revolted, crying in pain and he struck out, killing again.

He was confined to dungeons for two months. He raged and flung himself against bars and took the hands off anyone who ventured too near and crouched in the corner of the cell like a caged animal. And for a while when he was there, he could watch a red-headed boy in the cell across from him, and wonder what was so _wrong_ about him and be bitter and resentful and hate him and want to hurt him and want to have him so he could be humiliated and broken and splintered in the blackness like he was.

Lyude touched his shoulder gently, saying softly, "Folon, what are you thinking about? You've got that look on your face." The one that meant he was losing it, shifting into when he had been the Empire's toy – the toy that exploded whenever it was thrown, and the toy no one really cared about.

Folon gave him a queer, disturbing smile, hugging him tightly with both his arms. Tugging on a tress of Lyude's very red hair, he replied, "You."


	3. Ice

_(A/N: The given theme was 'ice'; this is creepy.)_

It was too hot to be running, but he was. Lyude had turned and fled as fast as he possibly could, stumbling out of the room and nearly colliding with a bookcase near the door. His eyes were blind with tears; he was running without seeing, trusting that he knew his was to the palace without their assistance. He was _shaking_ because he was afraid, consumed by absolute terror, not daring to stop moving because if he did he was _prey_ and that was even worse than running and being afraid.

He'd just walked in. Walked into the room like he would on any average day. He'd discovered Folon, perched on one of the chairs with his arms clasped around his knees, staring out the window and rocking back and forth just a little. That was odd, queer; strange, even for him. When Lyude had asked what was wrong, Folon's voice had come raspy and menacing, replying simply, "It's hot."

That didn't make sense to Lyude. He'd gone across the room to give Folon a gentle and comforting hug around the shoulders, and had to ask further. "Yes, it is. What does that have to do with anything?"

"It's hot." Folon repeated, looking at him slowly and solidly, "Very hot. Like Mintaka was."

That was when the first chills of fear crept into his stomach. He'd withdrawn a couple of steps, arms hanging at his sides.

"Like Mintaka." Folon went on, sounding less and less there as he did, "Where all the people are. Where all the _right_ comes from. Where my wrong started. Do you remember?"

"I remember." Lyude had murmured quietly in response, fighting back a feeling of panic that threatened to take him over. If the _weather_ was causing a lapse like this… but then again, it had been a while since the last time Folon had gone off the deep end… if it turned violent he'd have a real problem on his hands.

"You remember." Folon mimicked, hollowly, "No, you don't. You don't _know_. It's hot there, in Mintaka. But I was always cold. Always _freezing_. Like ice. Because they wanted me that way. Because that was what they told me was the _right_ way. And whenever it's hot, that's what I think of. Being right. It was right to be hard. It was right to be cold. It was right to hurt people. It was right to want the blood on my hands. The blood in your hair. The blood out of your skull." Folon stared fixatedly at him the whole of time he was speaking, his eyes showing the obvious signs of slipping. Clouded and unclear, they were, but focused on one thing with one purpose in mind. He'd slowly risen from the hair.

Lyude had run then. Turned and run as fast as he could, because his life depended on it.


	4. Love

_(The given theme was 'love'; I like trying to convey Folon's maladjustment to normalcy.)_

Teaching Folon what love was had to be one of the most difficult things Lyude had ever had to do.

First there were the questions which, as innocent as they could be, were flatly unnerving. The 'Why am I smiling?' and 'What does it mean to feel… not angry?' and trying to explain what that feeling 'floaty' on the inside meant. Lyude stumbled over the words and tried to twist them into making sense – after all, he was trying to talk about something that had never been a sensation meant to be put to words.

And what's more, it never seemed to make sense to Folon, no matter how many times it was explained. Sometimes it made Lyude really wonder as to just how awful his childhood had been, that he didn't _know_ what it meant to be happy. To not understand simple things that meant you were content; to be so perplexed by something as natural as a smile?

It got to be frightening.

Then there were the answers. Lyude's saying 'I love you' threw him completely off balance for the longest time. And then eventually he started asking in response. He asked 'Why?' and 'Even when I hurt you?' and never really let the phrase sit. It had to be examined – it had to be properly tested and worked on, until it felt right and worked and made sense.

'I don't understand.' He always that when what was being presented was a foreign concept entirely. It was almost like he was a child – and yet, he _couldn't_ be a child, not with what he was capable of. The ease with which he killed and the way he took what he wanted without thinking twice or ever regretting it; sometimes he reminded Lyude of a machine, programmed to do several things and only those and never think and just _do_, but that was wrong. Folon was unpredictable.

But under the surface, he was twisted. Twisted like a confused, twisted like never having had the chance to properly learn. Having had every lesson shoved cruelly down his throat without the time to adapt to it, that was the kind of twisted he was.

But that was why it was so worth it, when Folon could finally say it with the right tone. When his response to 'I love you' was no longer confusion or rejection. When he really meant it from the inside.

When he could say, "I love you, Lyude."


	5. It Shocked Me

_(A/N: The given theme was 'It Shocked Me!'; there's implied Skeed x Folon in this one.)_

I want him. That's not a bad thing, is it? That's not wrong? I want him. I wanted him before and I had him. He was mine. He was crying and afraid, but he was mine.

… I think that was wrong. That was want just because, wanting because I was hurting and he was hurting but I couldn't understand why and _my_ hurt was more so he had to take some away before he was pretty and right and –

I hurt him. Scared him. They wouldn't tell me where he went after I was through and they'd torn me off his body and stopped me licking all the sour-sweet blood from his skin and tearing off skin with my nails. They had to pull _hard_ to get me off, that's all I remember besides him and what he tasted like. Giacomo came, I remember that too. Later on he told me I was crazy then, uncontrollable then, and that that was okay.

He said it was okay! But no one else did. Everyone else said it was wrong and bad and _wrong_-wrong and that the boy had to be taken somewhere else for his punishment because I was crazy. I would kill him. Guards didn't want to be near me because I was… _wrong_.

They always said that. They said wrong or crazy and psychotic or insane or unglued or that my wires were crossed and that I'd never be anything other than that and _Giacomo_ said no. He said that I could be something. He said that I was strong. He said that I was a good fighter. He said that if I had a chance, I could be one of the best.

The _best_. That would mean I was right, wouldn't it? _Right_. I wanted that. I did. So I tried. I tried because Giacomo said I could, and I believed him. He was the only one who tried to see like I did, I think. The only one who accepted how I worked.

And then I started being _allowed_ to kill things. It puzzled me at first. It was _okay_ to do that? After all the times I'd been told it was wrong? Now it was okay? Giacomo explained it. I had to kill who he said I could. That was alright, I guess. I still got to kill people. I calmed down a little. I could think, sometimes.

Sometimes I got bored-tired and did what I wanted, though. People stopped talking about it. No one made any comments. I don't know why. It didn't seem to matter anymore if I stole someone off the street into an alley and did what I wanted. But I never saw that man again, from before.

… I saw one who looked like him. I liked that man. I wanted him. I always went after what I wanted, then. But he surprised me. He could deal with me. He didn't… understand, but he knew me. I still get to visit him sometimes, but he doesn't like it when I do. … He _does _like it, he just doesn't want anyone else to know. He said it's because he had more of a reason to be right than I did.

A lot is different now. I _found_ him again and I think now most of the time. He… he teaches me happy things. He taught me that a hug is sometimes better than hurt-scratching and that asking can turn out nicer than just taking. He teaches me what the Empire didn't and I forget sometimes, but the important part is the trying. It shocked me too, when I found out he was brothers with the other man. It makes sense, I guess, but they're really different. Like Ayme and me. I'm blue-skin, and hers is normal-ish. I'm more wrong than she is, but she says we're both wrong.

Lyude says I'm not wrong anymore. I don't say anything when he does.


	6. Cherry

_(A/N: The given theme was 'cherry'; this feels odd in comparison to the others, but that probably comes from having not touched this in about nine months.)_

Mintaka, capital of Alfard, was the richest city in all of the Empire. The colour green all but banished save for on the clothing of nobles, everything sparkled gold, bronze and metallic. People marched through the streets like ants, completing daily tasks without any time to spare – their systems were as efficient as they could possibly be. Soldiers attended training sessions and shot in ruler-straight lines or were punished if their performance was average or poorer. Every thing and every person slotted into place precisely.

Except for one.

Folon lounged in Giacomo's smaller office, waiting for his commander to return from wherever he was at the moment. The blue-skinned man (though hardly older than a boy, really) had long been banished from the training grounds on account of his unpredictable temperament, and found his days strained and tedious when he lacked assignments. They'd been few lately, far too few – he wanted to know why. It was getting to be damnably boring. And boring was a bad thing, they'd said; Giacomo had requested (and that meant he'd _ordered_) to receive notice as soon as he was getting bored.

Giacomo played an interesting game with Folon, not that the blue-skinned one knew it. Folon was a very high-priority, high-risk project, but the demand for him waxed and waned like the moon. For example, if talk of war was rising or some rebels got it in their heads that they were going to organize a revolution, the Empire wanted him. And it was very much a _now_ and _no questions_ sort of deal, and Giacomo was really more than willing to comply. Folon was good at killing. Very, very good at it.

But when there was no such talk, Folon was forgotten – something Giacomo couldn't have. Hell, it was something _Folon_ couldn't have. If he was forgotten, his wick burned down and the explosives just below the surface activated. He always had to be _doing_.

So this game, this _idea_ of Giacomo's, was to pique interest in Folon when there wasn't really any reason for it. The kid needed _something_ to do. He could be sent on any sort of wild goose chase and never realise that it was just a waste of time. Giacomo needed the Empire to understand that he was only dangerous when he was ignored (so Giacomo believed). The Empire needed to know that.

Because Folon was just useless when he went unused, and that was the long and short of it.

The blue-skin amused himself with what he considered philosophy while he waited for Giacomo. If you shot someone, they bled. The blood was always the same colour – red. Red was a very clear and strong colour. Why didn't some people bleed blue? He'd heard talk of blue blood before – it went you were better. The red-headed man, the taller one whose hair was dark, he was 'blue-blooded'. Folon hadn't seen his veins up close, hadn't personally inspected him, but he didn't think he'd seen blood this colour come out of him. Once, when Folon had been watching from a fair distance away, a subordinate had punched the red-head in the mouth and when he'd spit, the blood had been red. Very, very red.

Folon had left quickly and turned his thoughts the same way now; they annoyed him. He couldn't know. He'd have to kill everything on the planet to know. And _his_ blood definitely wasn't blue to match his skin – that would have been most logical. Yes, it was puzzling. Everyone bleeding the same colour but crying different cries and dying different deaths…

"You look like you're thinking about something important."

Folon swiveled, giving Giacomo a very wide, eerie grin, "Yes. Blood." Blood. Blood.

He blinked some, and found himself awake. A vivid memory of a vivid conversation, or just something his mind had made up? He certainly wasn't in Alfard right now, wasn't waiting around for Giacomo or thinking those thoughts…

He gazed at Lyude's exposed and bare shoulder, then reached out and slowly drove his nail into and down the skin. Lyude gave a gasp as a sharp line of bright, strong red bloomed; it seeped more than it actually bled, and Folon bent his head to lick it. Sour-sweet. Just like those fruits (cherries?) he'd once tried. The same colour as Lyude's hair.

The other man's voice was a little nervous when it came, "What were you dreaming of?"

"Home."

Folon had never before called anywhere home; Lyude was worried by the response. When he no longer felt a tongue on his back, he rolled over and gathered Folon into a hug, saying gently, "Whatever it was, it's okay. I'm right here."

"Yes. And your blood isn't blue."


End file.
